The communication came through on every frequency simultaneously.
I sat in Silver Creek's main conference room, surrounded by the remains of our supernatural coalition, watching Viktor Kane's face appear on screens that had been jury-rigged from damaged equipment. His ice-blue eyes stared out at us with the kind of calm satisfaction that belonged to someone who'd just played his winning hand.
"Good evening," Viktor said, his voice carrying the polite tone usually reserved for dinner party conversations rather than species-wide genocide announcements. "I believe we have matters to discuss."
"Talk," I said, silver light flickering around my hands as cosmic power responded to rage I was barely keeping under control.
